His Descent
by AllTheWrongLoves
Summary: His sanity was fragile. But he knew what his breaking point was when he even conjured his plan.


**Shoot me. Right now. Or pull me away from this computer…if you dare.*rubs it possessively* but on a serious note, I grew a new obsession with assassins creed. Have I played the games? No. to be honest the only reason I got into it was because I found out Nolan north played Desmond. I nerdgasmed and had to look it up. So…you guys face the aftermath. I own nothing.**

You're going insane. You've tried to deny it, with every optimistic bone in your body but it's too late. Those bones are broken-shattered beyond repair. What's left is the line between reality and what goes on in that _thing-_that machine, is slowly fading, blurring your present life and what you experience in those simulations into one massive blob that makes you question WHO you are, WHAT you're meant to do, WHY you can't wrap your deteriorating consciousness around actual life and fantasy. Why can't you? Your father used to always praise you for the way your eyes weren't the only thing that studied; how sharp your senses were and how you could sense a bad egg a mile away. And yet here you are, lying on your side in the blinding white room that has been stapled as yours. The clothes on your back are disheveled and wrinkled from your restlessness. You're rocking back and forth, desperately clenching your eyes shut when pedestrians start strolling through your bedroom. _One…two…three…_

You let the smallest sob pass your lips as a horse trots on inches away from you. You can practically feel your brain rip at itself with the utter confusion and terror you feel daily. _Twenty one…twenty-two…_ Oh but even with your decent, you can't stop the burning anger, the hatred you feel towards one particular person-no, towards many. This is not your fault. You did not know this would happen. You were scammed and forced into something you didn't fully understand. The seething anger just manages to keep you buckled down enough to remember your plan; it'll free you, it will help this elusive successor of yours.

So this grizzly plan of yours has benefits. Hopefully.

You stumble out of your room, not surprised when your feet at first fail to cooperate. You've been lying on the floor for hours. You give a silent thanks as you realize no one is around. Your misty blue eyes scan the frustratingly clean and white space, searching out the first thing you need. You shudder for an unknown reason when you focus on an abandoned pen on a desk. You move without any hesitation, picking up the writing utensil-no intention of using it in the proper way.

The sick thought twining through your unstable mind isn't unusual as you click the end, watching the ball point tip pop up, and back in when you hit it again. On command. Obeying the pressure of your thumb. Much like the lies that brought you here. How could you be so gullible? You fool. You mother_fucking_ fool. You breathe through your nose and dissemble it, breaking the plastic until it was sharp and jagged. Your blood runs cold as you drop the remains of the factory pen, chest heaving with uncertain huffs while you shakily set the jagged plastic on your wrist, squeezing your eyes and slashing the amateur weapon through the skin of your wrist. Blood gushes-warm, red liquid life soon covers your hand. You ignore the searing pain of the messy cut and move to your room with urgency. It was time you put on a bit of a show.

With the shock of blood loss already making you delirious, you smear your blood across the pure white walls with fervor. Crimson symbols start to appear the longer you continue, sometimes needing to egg on the bleeding with more slices on your arms, always aiming for a vein. You're shaking about halfway through your project. You can't focus, you feel cold. But you'll keep going. Because you have gotten that far, you're going to keep going-you'll go to the end. You keep smearing and treating your blood like finger-paint, trying to ignore your shaking and the chattering of your teeth. Your vision is blurring to the point you have to close your eyes to attempt to stay grounded. Out of habit you run a hand through your dirty blond hair, leaving streaks of precious life behind. in an effort to remain in place, you recite tidbit facts about yourself. _My name is...i mean my birthday is...I can't-I can't think! _You can't rememeber anything_. _you glance at you're creation. You're sure the image is awful, horrid. But he can't find himself to care of whatever reaction he gets after this. They won't be able to remove this.

Blood sticks.

You continue. Soft maniacal chuckles choke out of your mouth, pass your chapped lips. Delirium has gripped you hard and all you can do is laugh breathlessly…humorlessly. The cackles you are releasing are not of joy or even anger. They are you surrendering to the fear that clutches your chest in a vice-like grip and makes you want to cry, laugh, scream all at once. It's getting harder to concentrate; you need to press your homemade knife harder because of how weak you have become. You're almost finished. The shaking has become racking tremors through your whole body, you're ice cold and the eyes your mother once called your most charming quality dull as you slide…farther…down…the slope…of…insanity induced death. Farther down with every shallow breath. You're thoughts become scrambled nonsense-foreign languages, faces, symbols…oh god it won't stop. Your upper body is soaked in blood, the grin on your face is anything but happy.

You take that plastic weapon once more, ripping across your throat, gurgling as more blood poured through your mouth and shortening your too far struggling breaths. You choke and cough, setting your bloody hands on the messy floor below you to push up on shaky, butchered arms.

You have slipped-only vaguely aware of how slowly and painfully you practically have to crawl to the monstrous machine that has brought you down so far, sliding your bloody fingers against the touch screen to activate it, the soft blue hue and the near silent purr it emits. You now smell the blood; you taste it with every taste bud in your overwhelmed mouth-you now feel the consequences of your choices. But you're too far in. You can't turn back and it would be pointless to just stop. There you go again. Now you're just falling…into…darkness. You slump into the spine damaging seat, the HUD going over your clouding eyes.

The lovely organ known as your heart slows, the last of your sustaining blood leaking free from the many wounds that cover your arms-and the single slice across your masculine neck, trickling onto the elegant looking machinery and pooling around you. Your chest rises and falls as if your hyperventilating, visions of your family flickering through your mind. Mom…Dad…you'll miss them. You will with all your heart. But this deadly fall into insanity through desperation, betrayal, and your own need to belong somewhere- has won the battle. You wanted-no…NEEDED to be part of something besides the pattern you're previous generations had created. How far has it back fired? So far. So goddamn far. Because now you are not yourself. You are broken, you lack sanity, and you just aren't who were before this. You are lost.

You force out one whimper that turns into a sigh when you hear '_animus successfully updated_.' You let your once lively eyes roll back into your skull, tumbling off the futuristic machine with a sickening thump. You don't move, because you're being thrown into…even…more…darkness…until there's nothingness and your heart give one final shudder as it attempts to use what's left of your blood to keep you living. But you have no more. Its spread on the walls of your room, dripped onto the floors, sponged up by your clothes. It's all gone. You have nothing left.

You cannot speak; your throat nothing but a bloody line of meat, yet all you want to do is curse those who drove you to this. You carefully, hesitantly loll your head until your nose touches the cold tiles of the floor; you're heart stopping and your body going still. No more breaths-effortful or not-they no longer existed. You were gone, succumbed to the darkness knows as death soaked to the bone in your own blood. You were no longer subject sixteen-you were Clay Kaczmarek once again.

The next day, they find you in a bloody heap on the floor, thinking you had finally performed a massive mental breakdown. They clean up your mess, thinking they fully removed it. And without any mercy, without and empathy, they had your body dumped into a river and jotted down as suicide.

Inside the Animus, you appear. Prepared to wait, ready to play patient. Because you're still needed. Even if the outside world doesn't know it yet.

**OMG WTF IS THIS?! I'LL TELL YOU WHAT! ME EXPRESSING MY LOVE FOR SUBJECT 16/CLAY! OH GOD THAT MAN MAKES ME HAVE SO MANY FEELS! I LOVE HIM MORE THAN I LOVE SULLY! *drops in emotional exhaustion* angstangstangstangst I love you clay. You're efforts aren't ignored. *sob* I'm sorry if I cared the pants off of some people. look up 'smashing pumpkins The beginning is the end is the beginning.' it inspired this with gusto.**


End file.
